A Hogswatch Carol
by Laiqualaurelote
Summary: A series of fics for the countdown to Christmas Day. An insight into the Hogswatch celebrations of people across the Disc, ranging from the well known, like Vetinari and the Watch, to the less written, such as the Times and the Cheesemongers.
1. Silent Night

**A Hogswatch Carol**

Author's Note: This is a series of fics, which will be uploaded one for every day we draw nearer to Christmas. They are based not only on well-known parties or organisations in the Discworld series, like Vetinari and the Watch, but also on the lesser focused upon, such as the Post Office and the Cheesemongers.

I would like to make it clear that these are neither songfics or filks. I know there's a rule against them, and even though I have personal objections to that rule I will not break it. It is no crime to quote from well-known literary sources of prose or poetry, and surely carols as songs are considered poems. I am only quoting. Don't sue me. I rest my case.

Disclaimer: Lord Vetinari is Terry Pratchett's. This version of Silent Night is by Damien Rice, and is a hidden track on the album O. Truth be told, I like it better than the original classic. 

**1. Silent Night**

_Silent night, broken night  
All is fallen when you take your flight  
I found some hate for you, just for show   
You found some love for me, thinking I'd go  
Don't keep me from crying to sleep  
Sleep in heavenly peace_

The silence was a deep, muffled, blanketed emptiness, a vacancy, a vacuum in the night. The snow overlaid the normal sordid state of the twin cities beyond the window, falling clean and white and pristine, but not for long. The snow on the streets had been trodden into a dirty grey; on the Ankh's waters, which had not so much frozen as simply stopped moving, the snow had turned a truly sickly yellow.

But still the snow was falling with ignorant bliss, out of an empty sky.

Lord Vetinari dipped the quill tip into the inkpot. It bumped into an ink-berg, a new natural phenomenon resultant of the temperature indoors, and sent the chunk of inky-purplish ice spinning away sluggishly to rest against the wall of the inkpot.

Vetinari raised the quill and went on writing.

One would think that, embroiled in the festive spirit, people would stop sending in _things_ for him to deal with: letters, complaints, proposals. Contrary to popular belief, the amount of paperwork he received almost doubled around Hogswatch every year. All those festival parades, for one. Messrs. Colon and Nobbs had taken the opportunity to clamp every vehicle, animal and lamppost that had been caught in the ensuing traffic congestion, and the flow of complaints had been positively torrential.

Downstairs, there was the sound of the maidservants packing up and leaving for their Hogswatch family celebrations.

He desired to compare certain statistics in a document to the ones he had collected, and accordingly called for Drumknott to bring in the required files. When the clerk did not respond, he called again.

After the third call, he suddenly remembered that Drumknott wasn't there.

This was primarily because Drumknott, unlike Vetinari, had a family, and this year he had finally obtained permission from his employer to take five days' leave so he could return to the family home for Hogswatch. Vetinari reckoned he should have kept this fact in mind. He put it down to the sheer habit of having Drumknott always at hand.

Vetinari got up and opened the door of his office.

Downstairs, the lights were going out. The palace was slowly emptying of its staff. Normally most of them slept here for the sake of convenience – but this night, Hogswatchnight, they were all going home.

Vetinari shut the door. He went back to his desk and stared reflectively at the amount of paperwork left to tackle. For some reason he felt like burning some of it, an unnatural and immature inclination, the like of which he had not experienced since he was seventeen and controlled by an irresistible urge to raze all of Downey's textbooks for him.

He looked at the inkpot, and discovered that it had taken the opportunity, while he was distracted, to ice over entirely.

He permitted himself the luxury of an exasperated sigh, picked it up and put it down by the fireplace to melt.

Then he went to the window and stood there for a long while, contemplating the wintry scene below.

Ankh-Morpork would be celebrating their beloved festival down there. From up here he could see the lights, strung up across the streets, twinkling from the branches of trees. Even the area of the Shades was lit by a few tawdry red-and-green lanterns. And there were lights in the houses, lights in the windows, lights behind the cracks of open doors, welcoming and warm.

Down there, they would be laughing, singing, carolling. With the window shut against the cold he could hear none of it. The room was silent, apart from the crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of a sheet of paper.

Vetinari, deliberately avoiding the stares his paperwork was giving him, went to sit down in the more comfortable of the two chairs in the room. It was straight-backed and wooden, and lacked a cushion.

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork sat in his chair and stared at the blank wall of his office, unseeing.

He was trying to remember the last time he had received a real Hogswatch card – not the ones from political counterparts, but the ones sent not out of duty but goodwill. The only person who ever sent him anything for Hogswatch was his aunt, and then only when she felt he deserved it.

There had been the Thud! set from Margolotta, but since it was only because she wanted him to play with her over the clacks, it hardly counted in her favour. At any rate, such gifts were rare.

He stared at the wall, and thought about how he always had the city in mind, and how that now they had their own happinesses, none of the people in it were so much as thinking of him.

There is such a thing as festive blues. Lonely people get them around Hogswatch and other happy times. The Patrician was unknowingly suffering from a severe attack of it.

With the window shut, he couldn't hear the happiness. The room was silent. He was silent.

Lord Vetinari got up, gave the paperwork a look askance, left the ink-bergs melting by the fire and went upstairs to his bedroom.

Always, on Hogswatchnight, he went to bed uncharacteristically early.

**End.  
**


	2. Walking in a Winter Wonderland

**A Hogswatch Carol**

Author's Note: I don't particularly like this one. It might be my least favourite in the entire set – but I don't know, I might change my mind later.

I'm just hoping no one's out of character here.

Disclaimer: William, Sacharissa, Otto and Mr. Wintler belong to Terry Pratchett. As to the carol 'Winter Wonderland' – well, carols belong to everybody, don't they?

**2. Walking in a Winter Wonderland**

_Sleigh bells ring – are you listening  
In the lane – snow is glistening  
A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight  
Walking in a winter wonderland_

It was snowing. By all accounts, it was snowing quite prettily – at least until the part where the snow met the ground of Ankh-Morpork. But if you kept your gaze at eye-level, it really looked quite good.

The Times had turned out one fantastically long Hogswatch edition, which had kept the entire office awake till the wee hours in the mornings before it was printed, and then after they had sold every copy, shut their doors and went on holiday.

But as we all know, it's not that easy for a reporter to go on holiday.

The two co-editors of the newspaper and their head iconographer stepped out into the street. All three had a look of determination on their faces.

"Right," said William de Worde. "This is the plan. We're going to walk down the street, turn the corner, and find a restaurant to have dinner. We are _not_ going to stop on the way, whatever happens, be it a, traffic accident, a murder, or a naked man running past."

"No press-ganging," breathed Sacharissa. "All right, are we ready? No, we're not. Otto, I can see the iconograph."

"Sorry," admitted Otto. "Habit, you see."

"That's what we're trying to break, Otto," reprimanded Sacharissa.

"Oh, very vell," muttered Otto, ducking back inside the office.

"And no notebooks either," Sacharissa addressed William accusingly, as they stood outside in the snow.

"I don't _have_ a notebook on me," protested William.

"Just checking."

Otto emerged sans iconograph, and they began their walk.

Any observant passer-by would have been intrigued by their walk. They didn't walk like normal people hurrying home with their Hogswatch shopping. They walked like they were trying to avoid a periodic rain of hailstones. Otto was navigating through half-closed eyes; occasionally he careened off a lamppost. Sacharissa's lips were firmly set with prim purpose; she clutched her cloak around her like a shield against the snow. William was giving all the alleyways furtive glances, in case naked men came running out of them. Occasionally, for no visible reason, he ducked.

It was a softening sight, snow on Ankh-Morpork. It was by no means particularly beautifying, but it meant that whenever you stepped in something less than solid in the streets, you could convince yourself quite aptly that it was snow, nothing more. The shops were trying to outdo each other in colour and decoration, putting up a blazing show of ornamentation along the rows of shopfronts. The whole effect was really almost attractive.

However, to a reporter's eye, even in a winter wonderland such as this, every street was filled with dangers lurking in the potential of everything that moved to become a scandal that needed reporting.

Halfway down the street, a bout of screaming broke out behind them. A running man in black shoved Otto aside unceremoniously and dashed off down the street, followed by the shrieks of a little old lady. "UNLICENSED THIEF! HELP! UNLICENSED THIEF!"

Otto grabbed both William and Sacharissa as they spun around on autopilot, hands reaching for the pockets where their notebooks and pens were normally kept. "Keep valking! Ve must be stronk!"

William finally tore his eyes away from the tantalising sight of an unlicensed robbery. He glanced at Sacharissa and saw the headlines reflected in her eyes. 'UNLICENSED THIEF STRIKES ON HOGSWATCH'. 'WHAT IS THIS CITY COMING TO?'

She sighed wistfully. "Let's go."

They turned the corner without further incident, upon which they encountered an all-too-familiar face. "Oh, _there_ you are! What a Hogswatch, eh?"

"Happy Hogswatch, Mr. Wintler," ventured William, warily.

Mr. Wintler seemed not to catch the skepticism in William's voice. "Would you believe it? There I was the other day, looking over my garden, and right in the middle of all this frost and snowy weather I dig up a red potato that's frozen into a most marvellous shape! And I thought, oh, wouldn't the Times like to put that in their Hogswatch edition, it's terribly humorous, I tell you – here, I've got it in this box. Would you like to take a look at – "

William flinched. "Please, Mr. Wintler, not in public!"

Mr. Wintler gave him a puzzled look.

"What he means," said Sacharissa in the place of her petrified co-editor, "is that we are currently on holiday leave, and are thus unable to address your request."

"But I thought…" began the miffed Mr. Wintler.

"Furthermore," went on Sacharissa, firmly overriding him, "the Hogswatch edition has already been printed. There's a stack being sold from the pavement opposite us, if you'd like to check. In short, Mr. Wintler, we're not interested. And we must be going. Do come back to see us after the holiday season, thank you."

She rammed her arm through William's, and with a firm stride dragged him limply away without a backward look. Otto hastily raced down the street after her, leaving the unfortunate Mr. Wintler behind at the street corner.

"You are really very terrifying when you do that," muttered William as he was dragged past a group of carollers singing in off-tune cacophony.

"Really," replied Sacharissa without batting an eyelid.

"You haf never noticed?" supplemented Otto. "Vhen you are angry, zer cartoonists, zey refuse to come out of zer office until I tell zem you haf calmed down."

Sacharissa looked slightly alarmed. "It's that bad?"

"Only when you really lose it," said William, and added morosely, "Could you stop dragging me? I'm taller than you, and it makes it rather hard to walk."

Sacharissa released him and tactfully changed the subject. "We're nearly there," she said cheerfully. "All we need to do is find a restaurant, and we're s – "

At that moment they were passing the Alchemists' Guild, which promptly blew up.

The force from the blast nearly knocked them off their feet. The roof of the Guild was suddenly a pretty play of brilliantly violet flames, which whirled about the melting roofing tiles and snapped at each other like vindictive dragons. A group of shellshocked-looking alchemists staggered out of the building, gazed in horror at the fire consuming their roof, and then began to point fingers and shriek blame at each other, an action that steadily degenerated into a brawl.

The three stared at each other in growing consternation.

"I need my notebook!" wailed William.

"Where's my pen?" gasped Sacharissa.

"Picture, picture, damndamdamndamn……" groaned Otto.

Journalism is not something one can be born with. However, it makes up for that by being exceptionally easy to inculcate.

"Interview the alchemists!"

"My notebook!"

"Oh, gods, zer lightink…"

"Who started it? Who started it? Oh shi – "

"William, don't swear!"

" – take mushrooms. Gods, I need paper."

"Gods, Sacharissa, you should have let me bring zer iconograph!"

"Stop it!" shrieked Sacharissa. "It's happening again!"

William and Otto instinctively shut up.

Sacharissa turned on her heel and marched up the street. Five seconds later she broke into a run.

The other two made haste to catch up. Leaving the brawling alchemists, the burning Guild, and a truly tempting story behind, they pelted across the snowy pavement and flung themselves into the first eating place they saw.

The waiter gave them a concerned look as they struggled to get their breath back.

"Table for three, please," panted William. "Thank you." He sank into a seat. "Okay, who's paying?"

"Sacharissa must not pay," said Otto automatically, "it is not zer proper thing for a lady, so it vill be either me or you."

"Me then," decided William.

"I do protest…"

"I _have_ more money than you," argued William. "I do. Anyway, it's Hogswatch, so it doesn't matter. What matters is that we're here."

"Yes," said Sacharissa, after a deep breath. She smiled graciously at them over the rim of her water-glass. "I told you it wouldn't be too difficult."

William reflected on all the struggles his internal journalist had put up on the way here.

"Er," he said, "well."

"Happy Hogsvatch, everybody," said Otto gaily.

"To peace and goodwill," agreed Sacharissa virtuously, raising her glass.

William raised his own. "To peace, especially."

They drank.

**End.**


	3. Need a Little Hogswatch Now

**A Hogswatch Carol**

Author's Note: Happy Hogswatch, fellow Cheesemongers. I really do love my OTP.

Disclaimer: Polly, Maladicta and the Ins-and-outs are Terry Pratchett's. And I don't know who wrote 'Need a Little Christmas Now', but it sure wasn't me.

**3. Need a Little Hogswatch Now**

_For I've grown a little leaner  
Grown a little older  
Grown a little sadder  
Grown a little colder  
And I need a little angel  
Sitting on my shoulder  
Need a little Christmas now_

Up on the mountain pass, it snowed.

Inside the cave, the fire was dying down. The cold was invading the tight pocket of warmth inside, causing a number among the figures curled up beside the fire to shiver in their sleep and clutch the faded fabric of a regimental coat around their thin frames.

The shadow stood watching them, an odd sort of tender pity on its face. Then without a sound, it slipped out of the cave and disappeared into the snow.

Five minutes later, a head appeared for a second, protruding from a clump of rocks overlooking the road, and then it disappeared with all the alacrity of one familiar with the knowledge that at least fifty hypothetical crossbows were positioned on the opposite outcrop, ready to shoot the living daylights out of anything that moved.

From behind the rocks, there was the minute sound of a crossbow being cocked.

A sudden sound made the figure spin around, crossbow at the ready, swinging to point at the startled face of a soldier in the uniform of the Ins-and-Outs.

The crossbow relaxed. "What the hell are you doing out here, Polly?"

"What the hell are you doing out here, Mal?" hissed the other, unfazed by the fact that the crossbow was still pointing in her direction. "Last time I checked, you were on _watch_!"

"I'm watching the road. Shut up!" came the rejoinder, a sudden urgency infusing it.

They both fell silent. On the outcrop opposite, a single cigarette flared in the night, denoting the position of a sentry in the enemy camp.

"Want I should take him down, sarge?" offered the one with the crossbow.

"Unless you want to alert them to our position." Sergeant Perks shook her head. "Why are you watching the road, Mal?"

Maladicta shrugged. "Something's bound to come along. We need food. _I_ need _coffee_. We've been stuck here for nearly a week, Polly."

"You could have told me," said Polly reproachfully. "You think you could take down a coach down by yourself?"

"Vampire. Why not?"

"With every crossbow in enemy camp firing straight at you?"

"Okay," admitted Maladicta, "that might make it a bit more difficult."

"I'm coming with you, corporal, and that's an order."

"Look," pointed out Maladicta, "if we both cop it, who's going to take care of the lads?"

"If we don't get that food, there won't be any more lads to take care of," retorted Polly grimly. She sighed. "Fancy spending Hogswatch up in a mountain pass, half frozen and starving, with fifty enemy crossbows waiting to pick us off if we make a break for it. It's _bloody_ Hogswatch, for goodness' sakes – don't they know that?"

"Polly," said Maladicta warningly, "not the b-word. Not now."

"Sorry."

They were interrupted by the sound of wheels on frozen ground, and the sharp whinny of a horse. Both crept up to the edge of the rocks and raised their heads cautiously.

A coach came along the road, the horses treading carefully on the slippery snow, the driver no more than a bundle of furs on the seat. Polly let out her breath in a rush of cold mist before her face. "I don't believe this. What's an Ankh-Morpork coach doing out here at this time?"

"Mail coach," said Maladicta shortly. "_Some_ people have Hogswatch gifts to send."

Polly gave her a sidelong look. "Think it's a risk worth taking?"

"Anything for coffee." Maladicta readied her crossbow. "Come on."

The coach was winding up the road towards where they were hidden. Both were tensed, ready to leap out from behind the rocks.

"Run for it," whispered Polly. "Just grab what you can and run for it. If either of us is shot down, the other one must _not_ turn back, is that clear?"

"Understood, sarge." Maladicta grinned. Fangs flashed in the moonlight. "For the lads."

Polly nodded. "For the lads. On my count: three, two, one – go!"

They both broke cover simultaneously, running as fast they could towards the coach. Maladicta was already there; like lightning she swung up onto the seat, yanking at the reins with one hand to stop the horses, levelling the crossbow easily with her other hand at the driver's face. "Sorry to bother you, sir, this won't take a second……"

The driver's eyes rolled in fear, and he yelled out for help. Up on the outcrop, there were cries of astonishment, barked orders to ready for battle. The coach door swung open, and two large men – the mail coach bodyguards – jumped out, brandishing swords.

Maladicta swore, punched the driver so hard he flew off the seat into the snow on the other side of the road, and twisted on the seat so that her boots met the ribs of the first bodyguard coming at her. The two of them went down in a flurry of snow. Maladicta landed on top, sent the struggling man reeling with another blow, and kicked him to make sure he stayed down. Behind them, Polly was already leaping over the body of the second man to board the mail coach. Maladicta leapt up after her.

They didn't have long. Polly rummaged desperately amongst the sacks of mail, and finally found the essential store of food every coach travelling in this weather would need. She grabbed as many tins of dried meat and stock cubes she could hold, knowing without looking that Maladicta doing the same, and then turned towards the open door.

Maladicta froze suddenly. "My good gods, that _isn't_ coffee, is it?"

Three crossbow bolts thudded into the wood of the coach side, signifying that the enemy was loaded and firing. Polly grabbed at her comrade's shoulder. "Come on, Mal, there's _no time_!"

"I can _smell_ it!" gasped Maladicta, and freeing herself from Polly's grip, she lunged towards the mail sacks and seized one, brought it to her nose to make sure, grinned, and then tucked it under her arm.

"Let's _go_!" wailed Polly, and together they burst out of the coach as the first volley of crossbow fire rained about them, worrying their mad dash towards the safety of the rocks. One just missed Polly, catching her a gash on the arm. She winced, but didn't slow until she threw herself behind the shelter of the rocks. "Gods, why don't they give us a break?"

Maladicta rolled over, aimed the crossbow and pulled the trigger twice. There were two short screams up on the outcrop, and the rain of missiles ceased momentarily . The vampire cocked a sardonic grin. "Some Hogswatch, eh?"

"Keep moving," returned Polly, and they took the chance to make a break for it up the slope. With the dreadful song of the crossbows pursuing them, they flung themselves into the cover of a snow drift, finally out of range of the enemy's weapons.

"Close one, that," remarked Maladicta to Polly as they lay in six feet of snow. She released her hold on the mail bag and opened it. "Let's see what we have here…"

"What sort of crazy person sends coffee from Ankh-Morpork to Borogravia in _wartime_?" muttered Polly, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relax.

"Whoever it is, I love them for it already," replied Maladicta happily, tearing open the package. "Lovely, Klatchian Black! I _adore_ Klatchian Black." She sounded like Paul had when Polly had given him that easel set two Hogswatches ago.

"There's a card," observed Polly. She picked it up with gloved fingers from where it had fluttered onto the snow, and handed it to Maladicta. "Would you like to know whose coffee you just stole?"

"I'm sure they wouldn't begrudge a soldier in need," began Maladicta callously, opening the card, and then she fell silent.

"What's it say?" demanded Polly, trying to read over her shoulder. To her surprise Maladicta sat up and squirmed away defensively, but not before Polly recognised the name beside the signature. "Otto Chriek? Isn't that the iconographer you were seeing last summer when we went to Ankh-Morpork? What's he doing, sending coffee in Borogravia?"

Maladicta ignored her, picking up the coffee in one hand and clutching it to herself while rereading the card. Comprehension dawned on Polly. "He sent it to _you_? But how on earth did he know our – we don't even _have_ an address!"

"That's because," said Maladicta in a subdued voice, "he sent one bag of coffee and a card to every region in Borogravia he could think of, because I had to be in one of them, and hopefully I'd come upon one. He knows that we probably won't be getting any other Hogswatch presents."

Polly couldn't think of what to say. "That's…a lot of regions."

"I know," said Maladicta simply. "It's…very sweet of him."

Polly gave her a suspicious look. The vampire was looking blissfully happy. She felt slightly unsettled. Life got a little more disturbing whenever Mal started acting like a _girl_.

"Come on," she said brusquely, "we'd better get the rest of the stuff back to the lads before one of them starves to death while we're out here."

Maladicta snapped back into military-efficiency mode, but for the rest of the trek up the slope, she was still wearing that blissfully happy grin.

Polly didn't begrudge her that present. Gods knew Mal had had more family-less Hogswatches than she herself had had.

They stopped in the mouth of the cave, two silhouettes against a sky breaking up into the dawn of a crisp, cold, eventful day. Near the embers of the fire, Private Schist was already rising up on his elbows, rubbing the sleep from his eyes while prodding Private Mannon beside him awake. Around the cave, the sleeping regiment began to wake.

Polly grinned at the faces, heavy with sleep and filled with astonishment, and then brightening with understanding.

She'd never disappointed her little lads before, and at least she hadn't broken that record, today of all days. They'd have a celebratroy meal all right.

"Happy Hogswatch, lads," she said softly.

**End.**


	4. All I Want For Hogswatch

**A Hogswatch Carol**

Author's Note: Am back from Christmas busking. Chriek, I ache _all over._

Disclaimer: I don't own Susan and her gang, Terry Pratchett does. Insofar as I am concerned, All I Want For Christmas is Mariah Carey's, since I've never heard anyone else sing it.

**4. All I Want For Hogswatch **

_I don't want a lot for Christmas  
There is just one thing I need  
And I don't care about the presents  
Underneath the Christmas tree  
I just want you for my own  
More than you could ever know  
Make my wish come true  
All I want for Christmas is you_

Susan never failed to observe how much children adored Hogswatch.

As a child, she herself had never had the luxury of celebrating Hogswatch. As an adult, she did not see why she should allow herself it.

School was out early today. Susan stood in the grounds of Frout Academy and watched her students tear past, through the gates, towards the parents waiting to take them home to their Hogswatch dinners and parties. The air fizzled with happiness. Happiness, on an overall, annoyed Susan. It was a family trait.

"Happy Hogswatch, Miss Susan!"

Susan, jolted out of her reverie, looked down. Marisa and Stella Warwick were tugging at her skirt, giving her twin gap-toothed smiles. Susan blinked. "Yes. Happy Hogswatch."

The Warwick twins, oblivious to their teacher's delayed reaction, beamed at her, and then raced off to where their mother was waving to them outside the grounds. Susan stared in the direction they had gone, unseeing.

When the grounds were more or less empty, Susan unfroze from her position by the gates, stepped outside, and began to make her way down the street.

She had nowhere in particular to go – no dinners to attend, no presents to deliver. Susan walked aimlessly through the steadily thickening snowfall. People rushed past her, pulling their coats about them, clutching armfuls of shopping, all in a hurry to get home before sundown. No one gave a second thought to the woman with the black-and-white hair, walking at a slow gait far removed from her normal brisk stride, her face unreadable.

Susan wondered for a moment, if she disappeared on this very spot, whether anyone would have noticed. She decided not to try it out, if only because a positive answer would have been really hard to bear.

She didn't _hate_ Hogswatch. Not per se. It was just that it happened to be meaningless for her, while it was full of meaning for everyone around her. The festive season did not suit her. She had never worn red, or green. She was not one for giving, because she had nothing to give. The only thing she knew how to do was to take. Yet another familiy trait.

Susan let her feet do the navigating, even though she knew perfectly well the route they would take. And so, when she ended up before the ominous sign of Biers, she wasn't at all surprised.

One could say that Biers was a bar with exclusive membership. Being dead was an automatic qualification. For those who didn't have that privilege, your membership depended on your ability to enter it and stay uneaten.

It was no place for a young woman to go. It was where Susan went every Hogswatch.

She sighed, and stepped inside. The stools and the tables were rather more empty than normal. Even the patrons of Biers had families, mostly.

"Same, Igor," she told the misshapen bartender, who gave a lopsided nod and went to pour her drink.

Susan took it without looking at it and drank half of it down. Igor watched her with concern. In Ankh-Morpork, anyone with half a brain looked at their drink before drinking it. You really wanted to know what it was you were downing. The only people who didn't were the ones with_out_ half a brain, or the ones who really had something to drown.

"Bad day at work?" he ventured.

Susan blinked, and glanced at him. "No," she said. "Everything's fine."

"Really now," said a voice on her right.

Susan turned to the newcomer, and nearly choked on her drink. She had never really got used to Lobsang's funny habit of suddenly appearing in the weirdest places of her life, like the stationery cupboard in her classroom. He had now materialised on what had been a previously vacant stool, looking slightly sheepish as she glared at him.

Igor made no comment on the man's sudden appearance. You did get all sorts in Biers.

"So this is Biers?" said Lobsang conversationally. "Er. Nice atmosphere."

Susan finished her drink and turned to face him on full. "Lobsang, _what_ are you doing here?"

Lobsang ignored the question. "It _is_ Hogswatchnight, isn't it?"

"Why're you asking me? _You're_ Time, you should know the answer."

"Just checking I'm in the right moment," returned Lobsang petulantly. "Time-travelling's a lot harder than it looks."

"I know," said Susan shortly. "I've tried it."

There was a silence, which did not sound out of place at all in Biers.

Lobsang cleared his throat. "So…are you going anywhere tonight?"

Susan picked up her drink absent-mindedly, then remembered she had finished it. "No. Why?"

Lobsang distractedly picked at an unnatural and non-removable stain on the bartop. "You could come over to my place. For, you know, dinner."

"Your place," enunciated Susan. "And what do your parents say?"

"Oh, they'd be delighted to have you," said Lobsang hurriedly. "I mean, no one comes to visit them except me. And Dad likes you, I can tell."

"So you're taking me to see your parents."

"We could tell them we're dating," suggested Lobsang, and added anxiously, "We _are_ dating, aren't we?"

"Not technically," argued Susan. "Unless your idea of a date is making out in a stationery cupboard."

Lobsang had the grace to look embarassed.

Susan decided to revert to the original topic. "It's not a Hogswatch dinner, is it?"

"It could be if you wanted."

"I'd rather it wasn't, thank you very much."

"Oh good. We've never got around to getting a tree. At least, not a fir tree. We've got a lot of cherry blossoms. So, are you coming?"

Susan stared at him. "Now?"

"Yes, now. Timing really doesn't matter – not to us."

"But I need to – "

"No, you don't. It's very informal. Come on."

Lobsang pulled Susan off the stool and led her towards the door. They were still arguing as they went.

Igor went over mechanically to clear the empty glasses, and suddenly realised that Susan had omitted to pay him for the drink. Which was out of character for her. Susan always paid for her drinks.

He limped outside and glanced around. Two pairs of snowy footprints trailed down the snow on the pavement and abruptly stopped in the middle of nowhere. He saw that much before they were trampled by the next wave of pedestrians.

Igor went back inside, shaking his head. Hopefully she'd remember to pay up later. Hogswatch affected people in funny ways.

**End.**


	5. My True Love Gave To Me

**A Hogswatch Carol**

Author's Note: Me, I swear I will swear off romance. From one of my most avoided genres it has become common staple in my one-shots, which is truly annoying in its maudlin extreme. This is the third romance in a row. No more, I say, no more. I will die of sweetness first.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Post Office, its staff and its associates. I do not own the Twelve Days of Christmas, though I do wish I did. There'd be so much to give.

**5. My True Love Gave To Me**

On the first day of Christmas 

_My true love gave to me_

_A patridge in a pear tree_

Smoke curled into the grey skies of winter, steadily tamped down by the falling snow.

Despite the fact that she was standing next to a wall, the woman's posture was ramrod-straight. She stood apart, one severe grey figure in the midst of a brightly-clad crowd, the pinhead amidst the gilt wrapping, the pip within the fruit. Ignoring the pedestrains skirting her warily, she took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew a mouthful of pungent smoke into the cold air.

A golem with the uniform of the post office painted on it stamped by. In honour of the season, the post office golems had had an extra band of red and green painted over their clay shoulders, and a sprig of holly fixed atop their heads. It had, slung over its shoulder, a mountainous pile of cards and parcelled gifts, but walked as if it was carrying nothing.

"Good Evening, Miss Dearheart," it said. "Happy Hogswatch To You."

"Same to you, Anvil 23," returned she, and accompanied the remark with an exhalation of smoke.

The golem tramped on, stopping at the corner house and fishing in the sack with a huge hand. Miss Dearheart turned abruptly and started off in the opposite direction, her high heels sinking through an inch of snow to strike the cobblestones below with the sound of a hammer on nails. Cigarette ash littered the hollows of her heelprints.

A group of carollers accosted her at the street turning and, in the good old tradition of Ankh-Morpork buskers, began to chorus their songs in the most ghastly rendition possible, in the hope of being paid money to go away.

Miss Dearheart turned and gave them the Look.

When she turned the corner and clicked off down the next street, she left behind a group of shellshocked urchins. All of them later swore off carolling, and one of them retained an irrational fear of cigarette smoke for the rest of his childhood.

Miss Dearheart, supremely unconcerned for the welfare of street urchins, reached the part where the road opened up and terminated before the open city gates.

There was a crowd gathered upon the square before the gates. There was a tense muttering in the air. Miss Dearheart took up position at the edge of the crowd, back parallel to the wall, hand, mouth and cigarette working together in a mechanically perfect rhythm. She didn't look at the gate, not at the gate in particular. She just looked through the hazy film of smoke and watched nothing especially much.

The muttering of the crowd increased, and the sharper-eyed ones could spot, in the distance, a small black dot that grew swiftly larger as it approached the city gates.

When the dot became a coach, the cheering started, and spread, and grew louder. By the time the blue-and-gold Mail Coach tore through the gates and skidded to a halt before the waiting crowd, the cheering was roaring like a tropical monsoon.

The coach doors were flung open, and a man wearing a bewinged golden hat stepped out, raised his arms grandly and bowed. The cheering, if aurally possible, intensified. Then like the coach, the cheering screeched to a stop, because the Postmaster was speaking, and it was clear to all of them that you wouldn't want to miss a word of whatever the Postmaster was saying.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he was saying, "treasured patrons! The Post Office brings to you – your Hogswatch mail from Genua!"

The crowd applauded its appreciation, but fell silent as he raised his hand. "No holds barred, my friends, no holds barred. These are horses that have ridden non-stop! This mail is so fresh, that some of the stamps haven't even dried yet!"

The crowd laughed.

"In accordance to our motto, ladies and gentlemen: Rain or shine, no mail gets left behind. Once again, _we deliver_!"

The crowd cheered wildly. Their orator bowed again, and then stepped back as the mixed employees of the Post Office, both humans and golems in the uniform of the postman, rushed forwards to drag the mail sacks out and take them to their headquarters, where they would be redistributed and delivered to homes across the twin cities. The crowd dispersed, mostly hoping to get back home just in time to receive their mail.

The Postmaster sighted through the rapidly thinning crowd and recognised the familiar sight of a figure on the edge of the crowd, from which a thin tendril of smoke issued. He saluted.

Miss Dearheart took a last drag from the quickly crumbling cigarette and tossed the stub into the snow. Then she strode into the crowd, and the two of them met halfway.

"So, Mr. Lipwig," she said coolly. "Again you deliver."

"As always, my dear Spike. " Moist inclined his head. "As always." Then his solemn mood changed. "Come on, your present's in the coach."

Miss Dearheart allowed herself the thinnest of smiles as Moist seized her by the wrist and dragged her down to the coach, which he climbed into. There was the sound of rummaging, and Moist emerged with a box, which he handed to her. Miss Dearheart took it without a word and opened it.

There was a silence of bated breath. Then Miss Dearheart said, in an odd voice, "Well."

"Genuine snakeskin stilettos, Genuan handcrafted," elucidated Moist anxiously. "They're six-inch heels. Say you like them."

Miss Dearheart quirked an eyebrow at him. "Well, much as I hate to encourage you – I'm afraid I have to agree."

Moist beamed. "Which leads up to my second point. Same question as last month, Spike." In one deft motion he drew a matchbox from his coat pocket and struck a match. "Will you let me the one who holds your ashtray and lights your cigarettes for the rest of our lives?"

In a complex series of hand motions, a cigarette appeared between Miss Dearheart's fingers, and she lit it on the match flame. "Same answer as last month, I fear. But," she added after taking a drag, "in lieu of the circumstances I will consider your proposal for slightly longer than I did last time."

Moist grinned. "Well, that's an improvement, I must say. Although I can't help wondering, after having asked this a record fifteen times, when you are going to give in."

Miss Dearheart blew a smoke ring at him. "When I get tired of keeping you waiting."

"Answered like a true Dearheart," sighed Moist. "I wasn't expecting much else. Well, let's celebrate, shall we? It's Hogswatch, after all."

"Where?" inquired Miss Dearheart.

"Ladies' choice, of course."

"And if I said 'Les Fois Hereux?'"

"Again?" Moist laughed. "Then we'd go to 'Les Fois Hereux'. I'm perfectly willing to get someone rich to pay for us."

"Kidding. Let's go to a bar somewhere. I want a drink."

"Anything you say, Spike, anything you say."

They set off, their voices receding down the street. The snow renewed its fall, completely burying a cold cigarette butt. And all over Ankh-Morpork, a million people reached into their mailboxes and opened their Hogswatch mail.

**End. **


	6. Silver Bells

**A Hogswatch Carol**

Author's Note: This is the last instalment in the Carol series. There was going to be a seventh, but I'm going to be busy this Christmas Eve, so – sorry.

Alas, I think romance has become a staple in my one-shots. I just can't seem to get away from the damn thing. Not even here.

Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed this series, especially Manveri Mirkiel, who's faithfully reviewed every chapter – so I can forgive her for forgetting Lobsang.

And this is my favourite Christmas carol ever.

**6. Silver Bells**

_Children laughing, people passing  
Meeting smile after smile  
And on every street corner you'll hear_

_Silver bells, silver bells  
It's Christmas time in the city  
Ring-a-ling, hear them sing  
__Soon it will be Christmas day_

Commander Vimes shoved the last piece of paperwork into the Out tray and allowed himself a gasp of relief.

Well, that was that then. He wouldn't be looking at any more paperwork, not till the holidays were over.

He checked the clock. Half past eight. That should be enough time for him to stroll, and still get back home before the turkey was cold.

Vimes stood up, stretched, went over to the door of his office and opened it. The corridor was empty. At first glance the stairwell appeared to be so too, but Vimes' copper's eyes spotted a small figure lurking in the shadows beneath the sprig of mistletoe that had mysteriously appeared on the wall this morning.

Vimes sighed. "Nobby, give it up. Angua and Sally have been walking in zigzags since morning."

Corporal Nobbs shuffled reluctantly into the light. "'s only tradition, Mister Vimes. I din't intend no harm."

He looked so forlorn that Vimes relented. "Okay. You can keep the ones in the canteen. But for goodness sake take this one down! I don't want people canoodling in front of my office, d'you hear, Nobby?"

Nobby muttered his acquiescence morosely. Vimes left him jumping up and down and trying to reach the hook on which the mistletoe was dangling.

Vimes went down the stairs, hands in pockets. He dropped in at the canteen, where most of the officers (due to lack of work or a pure lethargy brought on by the holiday spirit) were slacking, or stoning (no intended pun, in the case of the trolls) Most of them had given in to the festive feeling and were engaged in card games.

Sergeants Littlebottom and Colon looked up guiltily as Vimes approached their table, an expression of mild interest on his face. He waved at them, to tell them to continue. Reg Shoe had his back to Vimes, and was watching eagle-eyed as Detritus carefully laid a card on the table and said, "Three."

"Bluff," said Reg automatically.

Detritus grinned a diamond grin. Reg furiously turned the card over. It was a three.

Scowling as well as the stitches allowed him, Reg took the whole stack and shuffled it crossly. Detritus calmly put one of his own cards face down on the canteen table and said, "Nine."

"Nine," said Colon hastily, putting down his own.

"Nine," adjoined Cheery, putting down hers.

"Nine," muttered Reg, slapping a card on the table.

"Bluff," announced Detritus happily.

Colon reached over and flipped the top card over. "Yep, it's an eight. All yours, Reg."

Reg glared, but reluctantly took the cards and assimilated them into his stack.

"Hallo, Mister Vimes," boomed Detritus, looking up suddenly. "Sorry we didn't see you."

"Oh, don't mind me," answered Vimes jovially. "Just go on with the game. Don't you enjoy a good freezing winter, Detritus?"

Detritus nodded his great head. "Yeah, Mister Vimes. I _love_ winter." He pulled a card out of his steadily thinning deck and put it down. "Six."

"Six," followed Colon, adding his own card.

"Bluff."

Vimes left the canteen as Colon's swearing echoed through the Watch House.

He was relaxed. This rarely happened to him, reflected Vimes, because it was very hard to be relaxed when he was chasing murdering psychopaths, and that sort of thing cropped up quite often in his schedule. But for once the spirit of Hogswatch seemed to be catching on. Nothing had come up. Not even Vetinari had summoned him to the Palace. It was really too good to be true.

Vimes seriously hoped nothing was going to come up. Even obsessed coppers needed a break a couple times a year, and this was one of those times.

He decided he had better get out of the Watch House before something did crop up, and set off an irresistible chain of events which would inevitably involve him missing Sybil's Hogswatch dinner. After all, Carrot would still be around, wouldn't he? It was time, as Sybil had so often told him, to delegate.

Speaking of Carrot……

Vimes decided to take the back stairs out, and immediately wished he hadn't. Bit of late, though.

Carrot and Angua broke apart guiltily as he stared at them. Carrot turned the same shade as Fred Colon after a long hard run. Angua suddenly found her nails very fascinating.

"Ah, sorry," said Vimes, looking uncomfortably from his captain, to his lieutenant, to Nobby's misbegot mistletoe sprig above them both, to the ceiling. "Me bad. Carry on with whatever you're doing, I'm just going off duty now."

As he disappeared hastily from view, Carrot said anxiously, "Angua, should we move somewhere else? Where we're not Obstructing Traffic?"

"Shut up, Carrot."

Outside, Vimes wrapped his coat around him and winced as he stepped into the street. He worshipped his worn cardboard soles all right, but there were circumstances in which thicker protection was admittedly preferable. Such as, for example, snow.

"Hello, Mister Vimes!" The voice came to his right – when Vimes squinted hard, he could see Constable Visit's beaming face in the midst of a muffler explosion. "Would you like a pamphlet?"

"No thanks," Vimes declined hastily. "You gave me one this morning already."

"But I could not help noticing, Mister Vimes," went on Visit, still incredibly cheerfully, "that you gave it to Constable Ping. I myself fervently pray that the Good God Om will speed up his recovery from his cold – but wouldn't you like another one?"

"Er, no," repeated Vimes. "I think you should give them to someone who can – er, appreciate them better."

"We've got a midnight service at our temple!" called Visit desperately after him as he trudged off into the snow. "To show our thanks to the Great Om for the wonderful gift of Hogswatch! It's free admission!"

"Go inside and get some hot cocoa before _you_ catch a cold, Visit," was the only reply.

Constable Visit stared after the departing figure of his commander dejectedly. Then he sneezed.

Even though he trusted the divine Om to keep him in good health, thought Visit as he shuffled inside the warmth of the Watch House, it might be good, perhaps, to make His job easier. He must have a lot more important things to do, this Hogswatch.

Now alone, Vimes plodded through the snowed up streets. The Watch House was a twinkling mass of lights behind him. Snow blurred the air and made navigation difficult, but his freezing feet weren't so numb they couldn't tell Treacle Mine cobblestones when they trod on them. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, huffed into the air, and tramped on.

Snow settled with decisive permanence on his coat shoulders. Vimes grinned, despite himself, and thought of the great fireplaces of the Ramkin mansion, the spread headed by the great turkey, and Sybil sitting, waiting in the armchair by the fire, little Sam in her lap.

Vimes sped up.

And all about the city, on every street corner, above all the bustle, he could hear the ringing of the Night Watch bells. All's well, they said. All's well, this Hogswatchnight, all's well.

**End.**

**Happy Hogswatch. **


End file.
